Ice Fishing at Camp

The electronic notification from the State of Maine advising the opening day for ice fishing crossed my desktop computer. Whoa, I thought to myself. Why wait until spring to visit camp? I scanned my best friends list to see who would be both available and enthusiastic about sitting on a turned over can on the ice with temps in the teens this time of year. I cautiously sent an email to my buddy Arnie, who I knew was available but not sure how enthusiastic. Thanks, but no thanks, came the response. With temps in the low 20s in Rochester, Arnie was in no mood to fish the morning on ice. Undeterred, I checked on flights from West Palm to Boston Logan and from there to Presque Isle. It was doable. I had the necessary clothes up at my camp — boots, long underwear, heavy coats, and duck pants. Guess I could, but should I? I have done more foolish things in the past when it came to fishing: hiking through Patagonia, climbing the hills of New Zealand, and slogging my way through the swamps to Beaver Pond.

So off I went to Logan and on to Presque Isle. Greg met me at the airport, and we drove to camp to dress up for a few days on the frozen lake. He had already pitched a small tent out on the ice for protection from the harsh Arctic winds blowing in from the northeast. Katie had cleared the snow from the side door to the camp porch. Inside, the place was damp and cold. Not the pleasant atmosphere of the summer months. The mice scurried about as I rummaged through the closet, looking for the heaviest coat and winter boots. Greg had set up the tent not 100 feet off the dock. As I walked out to the fishing hole drilled earlier, I thought about thin ice. Last thing I needed on this foolish journey was to fall through it. Arnie reminded me of such an event when he met his then-wife-to-be, who saved him in exactly that predicament.

So here I am, fulfilling a fantasy of “fishing the morning on ice” — maybe a title for a new book? Ice fishing is tedious — you lower the line and jig it once in a while then wait for a take. A lot of waiting and very little fishing. Eventually, there is a take and then a long haul up of a solid lake trout.

Finally, hands freezing, I pull up a catch. I hold up the fish for a picture. I am done, ice fishing fantasy fulfilled.